We waste an enormous amount of time for being such little humans.
…
I’ve had a small tornado living within my body, I call her my soul. She’s been trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what it is. I pray with hopes to connect with her midway between here and heaven. I read to her books of poetry and philosophy and love. Sometimes, I tell her about traveling, and she likes that. I think she wants to be somewhere romantic. Not in the love sense of romantic, but in the surreal sense. She can’t seem to be away from the people she loves for too long, so we just dream about things like living in France. We fly in those dreams and see so many beautiful places.
She’s gone crazy recently. I don’t know how to calm her. She’s become quite boisterous.
It’s hard to wake her up, especially when she has to go to work. She likes the sun, and the office has no windows. Lately, it’s been hard to hear her, and it makes us both sad.
I have to tell her to smile so that the kids don’t see her melancholic colors through my eyes. She seems to seep through my pupils more often than I’d like. People that love me see her. I was asked the other day by my sister if I was sad and I said no, to which she raised an eyebrow. I think she saw her. So, I acted crazy on Saturday so as to not be asked any more questions.
My kids are the only ones that can bring her peace. She’s restless until she connects with them in the beautiful pupils of their eyes. She loves to hear them talk. But mostly, she likes to hear them laugh. Their laughter sounds like bells ringing in my heart. And, she speaks their language, the language that existed before time.
She misses love. The kind of love she felt when she was seventeen. But my heart has forbidden that type of love since suffering so much at such a tender age. So, I think they might not be speaking to each other right now. My heart is a proud one. And so my soul sits on the perch of what’s left of it, hoping one day it will heal.
I have to remember the language so that I can listen to what she’s saying.
The closest that I can get to her is when I’m on my knees praying.
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I don’t know how to write about anything except for love.
Love, infinite tree which grows from my belly, into my nose,
through my mouth and chokes me,
through my eyes and blinds me,
takes my words and eats them,
… leaves me mute and dumb.
I am left only as a source from which it grows,
to feed it with my own longing, to grow it
with my desperate reaching, in my frail attempt to touch you.
My eyes, white, seek the sun for comfort…
Butterflies perch on my tongue and
bathe in the warmth of fragile sighs that
carry your name in the wind.
Myrna
dry river
How terrible, to sit at a bank of a dry river
Where fish once lived and drank fresh water.
Toes strummed reeds and made music,
and the earth was moist with lust.
A dragonfly passed by and
… reflected the entire world’s color in
one tiny wing.
How terrible it is to write your name in the
sand left behind.
What has time done?
The breeze seems to carry on like
nothing ever happened.
And the rocks are covered in dust
And even they,
even they are thirsty.
Myrna
Time and poetry
She wanted me to read something she wrote,
Yeah, I’m sure it’s wonderful, I thought,
barely thinking,
… for all I could do was look at her while
she pierced through me.
I whispered words that didn’t say much, but she,
she gave new meaning to words when she spoke.
I don’t know how I gathered the nerve to touch her.
But I did.
I touched her, in a way a young boy would touch his first love,
and, she, she just swallowed me, my entire existence.
Although the world was spinning faster
and things were out of sorts,
I was so present.
I wasn’t going to miss this.
Time elapsed and recycled itself over and over, and I stalled the inevitable
so that I could re-live each passing moment, but time caught up and—she kissed me.
My lips were quenched with water for the first time.
You are so beautiful, was all I could say.
Silence held us both in limbo, I could not escape her eyes.
Her eyes were like those of focused statues.
If I were true, I could continue to pray,
if not, she’d kill me with their absence.
So, she looked through me to search for the truth, and
like blades through my face,
she cut into the soul of my own eyes.
She saw there that she was nothing less than perfect, and
I had nothing to offer except admiration and my own despair.
It was enough for her now, for she was bored, and
there was nothing else to do that day.
And I,
I was just happy to be there.
Myrna
Ramblings of an untrained poet and the meaning of love.
I spilled blood when writing your name today.
Yes, I wrote so hard and terrible over and over
until shreds, that I became faint.
But, your tongue is my savior, your saliva, my elixir, as it
drip, drip, drips into my mouth
and gives me new life.
Oh, that I could I mean this much to you
—but knowing that I might
would make me crazy, as to understand the universe expands,
would be to understand two souls might love each other so.
But you doubt and ask, what is love
and how could I love thee?
And I sing,
Love is a romance, a
sexual attachment a
formula of x’s and o’s
Love is you!
And I love you.
But how do you love me?
Your wild eyes watched as I confessed,
When making love I get wet,
you get wet, and I can wallow in it for days.
Filthy isn’t it? Love, I am sick.
I am sick! Literally have gone insane. Love is an
intricate thing that my mind cannot understand, and I
blindly am at her command,
and you question my very being?
Sweet love is your hands on me,
the pressure of your body on me,
your breath in my ear and your sweat on my brow
Sweet love is you millions of miles in me
and your voice in my chords and
every exhausting beat of my heart…
and I am yours.
I am your very own God sent physical representation of a
timeless philosophy, a manifestation of the essence of
something one can not see with the eyes,
though believes at first sight, I am love
because I love you.
I will never cease to exist because I love you,
and I ask love, does the universe expand?
And might there be another soul that loves like I do,
And I realize that there cannot be.
Love, I wrote your name today over and over until shreds, knowing that
You might never really love me,
oh and that you would,
may all of the laws of the universe
be rewritten.
I am your very own, God sent, physical representation of a
timeless philosophy, a manifestation of the essence of
something one can not see with the eyes,
though believes at first sight, I am love
because I love you.
adoration is not enough
silly antics are stale
conversation floats in the room like dust
